Rose in Cruel Curves
by Panfila
Summary: A good story for bad people.
1. Before :: Prologue

_Let's agree to agree that there are too many questions left unsettled. The United States of Auradon and the Blue & Gold Throne hold many more scandals and secrets than were revealed. So we're just going to have to tease them out one painful memory at a time._

_Does that sound like fun?_

_It shouldn't. This is a good story for bad people, after all._

_Try not to enjoy it too much._

.

* * *

**BEFORE :: PROLOGUE**

* * *

It's late, around midnight, and Evie's carriage is about to turn into a pumpkin.

For some reason, Evie thinks, the missing _click-clack _of her heels makes the walk home harder. Her stockinged feet barely make any sound on the cobblestones of the street (which is just as well, because it's dark, she's alone, and it's creepy as heck in this part of town). Evie reaches the end of the street, peeks around the corner for other people, and, seeing none, trudges forward.

She dangles a pair of cute blue heels at her side, too exhausted and in too much of a hurry to wear them home. Her dearly beloved mother, the Queen, would strangle her if she saw her walking the streets of the Isle of the Lost (even this part of it) without her heels on, looking anything less than perfect when there could a Prince around any corner.

Although, to be fair, there are more reasons that her mom would want to kill her; most importantly: (1) it's almost midnight (2) on a school night, (3) she was at a party, (4) a _wild_ party, (5) and now she's walking home down dangerous streets from said party (6) alone.

"But who can blame me?" Evie asks the warm, empty night air. "Friday nights are made for parties."

She soldiers on down the street, past broken streetlights and overfilled trash cans.

The first Friday of each month is the one time when the Queen is out of her hair; at nightfall, without fail, she promptly disappears without explanation. Rumors fly throughout the castle of secret, sadistic, sinister rituals she performs each month for eternal youth and beauty, but Evie figures she just takes a spa night and poses in front of their old, broken magic mirror. So, with nobody breathing down her neck ("Remember your laugh lines, dear!") and a lifetime spent locked in a castle with her mom, it's the perfect time to venture out and discover the world she'd been denied for fourteen years. Because she's starting classes at Dragon Hall in a few weeks, finally joining the real world (well… as real as can be on the Isle of the Lost), but there's SO MUCH she needs to catch up on: news, gossip, friends, princes, and _parties_.

Parties… are hard.

They shouldn't be, but Evie's first party, only last month, was a disaster. Everybody else on the Island grew up together and already knew each other (not hard on an island full of infamous villain families), so cliques were tight and all talk was inside jokes and years-long grudges. At the center of the hoopla was Mal—daughter of the Mistress of Evil herself, Maleficent, and a blossoming, pernicious, teenage enchantress in her own right (if sources were to be trusted). Evie was the opposite of that: infamous but secluded, known but unrecognizable, and hopelessly out-of-place in a crowd of rowdy Island partiers. With all the loud music and dancing limbs, it was almost impossible to just dive into the tight groups of chatting bodies, so she spent the entire time in the corner watching everybody else laugh and sing and fight and slip away from the crowds in pairs.

This time was different. Evie had put herself out there and talked to _four _people. Well, she _talked_ _at _four people who stared at her with gaping mouths then slowly inched away when she finished, but it was progress! Maybe next time she'll sing in front of everyone...

Right now, Evie's a tired, sleepy hot mess. The only thought as she ducks around the empty streets toward her castle is whether she'll be able to sneak back all the way into her room before the Que—

Something catches her eye.

A rusty fire escape clings to the side of a small warehouse; half a block ahead of her and two stories above, dull lights flicker through a large, open window and illuminate a hunched figure peeking in.

And, for a single second, she thinks it might be _him_.

They bumped into each other at the party (literally). He appeared put of nowhere, and when she started talking and couldn't stop, he actually answered. So they talked, and talked some more, and found themselves in the hallway away from the crowd still talking, and then alone upstairs somehow still talking, and then… well... he had _not _been a prince, that was for sure. (Evie feels her face get hot just remembering…) The late hour had been a perfect exit strategy when things got dicey.

Evie immediately realizes the figure is unfamiliar—the figure is too boyish, dressed very differently than… anyone she remembers. The fatigue of the night washes over Evie again; her arms want to keep swinging on down the road, her aching legs push her to keep marching, her drooping eyes draw her back toward the castle in the short distance…

But Friday nights _are _made for adventure.

Evie gingerly steps up the tawny ladder, her ascent basically silent in stockings, and giggles after declaring a "Hello!" and watching the unaware boy flip out in front of her.

She was right: he's a bit scrawny for his age, and scruffy to boot. It's hard to pin down the dull light, but he's composed of various contrasts: dark eyebrows on a light face, white-blonde hair with black roots. Even his wardrobe is a dusty combination of black-and-white.

Evie opens her mouth to launch into her third brave action of the night and possibly make her first real friend, when the boy lurches forward and clamps a hand over her lips.

"Shhhhh!"

She is about to protest, to get offended, to tell the dude to take his ratty hands off the money-maker, when she catches what he's motioning at: through a half-open panel of smudged glass, she glimpses the muted lustre of an unpolished crown sitting atop black cotton.

_Mother_.

Evie almost yelps, but the dude still has his hand over her mouth.

"You seriously gotta promise to be quiet. If you do, I'll let go. So… can I let go of you?"

She nods.

He releases and wipes his hands on scraps of a black-and-white pair of pants. The boy's an oddball, for sure, and she _would_ look him over longer if she wasn't being magnetically drawn to _whatever _is going on inside this random warehouse at midnight. On the other side of the cracked glass window, a story below, sits a card table surrounded by three very notorious and feared island-dwellers.

"Are you going to play a hand, Jafar, or are you just going to count cards all night?"

"Well, I presume that depends whether that necklace you're hiding in your coat is ever making it to the pot."

"Less complaining and more losing, you two. I have a castle and daughter to take care of."

Evie flinches at her mom's voice. Somehow, outside the castle walls, it sounds… grimier, less polished, unrefined. Even hidden in the shadows above, she feels exposed and a twitch away from being punished to kingdom come. Still, she's baffled: is this where she goes during her monthly Wednesday disappearances? What is the Queen, who hates frivulties and niceties, doing sitting around a poker table with this ilk?

"I fold," Jafar responds, laying his cards on the table and crossing his arms.

Cruella de Vil rolls her eyes and groans. "Oh, all that dawdling just to give away your hand?"

He shrugs coldly. "I only play games with prizes worth winning."

"Don't worry, darling, you've never won anything worth having."

"Sorry, I couldn't hear you over all that barking."

Cruella's tightens her grip on her cards and opens her mouth, then closes it in continued frustration. Evie feels the boy beside her flinch.

"...Admit it, you sit in that garbage-dump-of-a-store all day with your boy and just dream up new ways to vex me, don't you?"

Jafar looks away. "No, I take care of that during my morning bowel movement."

The Queen sighs across the table from the two; she glances over her shoulder at a nearby window, dusty and cracked, and mutters. "Magic mirror in this pit, was I resurrected just to put up with this bullsh—?"

Cruella cackles. Momentarily losing interest in the bearded sorcerer, she leans over to the queen. "Of course you were! We all were!"

Jafar shakes his head. "Not this again…"

Up high, another piece clicks for Evie: a_gain_. These are the Villains. The Big Bads. The ones people on the Isle whisper and joke about coming to kill you. Even locked in her mother's castle, she's heard the murmurs and dark jokes, though she's never understood them. They're rumors and threats about the worst that Villainy has to offer. And her mother is one of them. Not a Queen, but The Evil Queen.

Evie isn't dumb. She knows her family isn't of the best character (a fact made clear by how they can't keep staff longer than a few months). But she'd always assumed they were the Fairest: distant royalty, imposing figures, eccentric celebrities, not… Villains.

"Yes, this again!"

"It's somebody else's turn to deal with this..." Jafar mutters.

"You were resurrected, my dear Queen," Cruella de Vil continues, "because the 'Heroes' thought death was too good for you. Dying, croaking, kicking the bucket: all too good for you and the lot of us."

"Enough already…"

"You were resurrected to appease the bloodiest definition of 'justice' anybody's ever thought of!"

"What if… we weren't?"

Cruella pauses and watches the Evil Queen. So does Evie. The matriarch leans forward and the royalty returns to her form: eyes narrow, chin up, mouth pulled tight.

"Well, Queenie, I don't know what to tell you, you're quite _alive_.That much is obvious."

"No, what if… Well, I guess now is as good a time to bring this up as any. If you bring this up while she's here, I'll deny it, but… What if we were not resurrected by the 'Heroes' at all? What if it was Maleficent?"

Cruella laughs. "No way!"

Jafar shakes his head. "Impossible…"

"And why not?"

The three freeze in their chairs, only swiveling eyes toward the distant sound of the icy question. Two deliberate steps bring Maleficent beside the table, almost as she's been there all along. Sharp and confrontational eyes betray the playful pout she wears and almost physically poke at the others.

"_Ahem_. Why not?"

Nobody budges.

"I never said you couldn't—"

"I'm not interested in the empty doubts of a spoiled heiress."

Cruella shuts her mouth and glowers. Again, Evie feels the boy next to her flinch. This time, for reasons she can't put into words, Evie places a light hand between his shoulder blades and rubs a few circles. She can feel his breathe subside.

"But you, Jafar…" Maleficent leans in and gets the attention of the former sorcerer. "You know magic. You've tasted the 'cosmic power.' Why such a doubter?"

He looks away, seemingly measuring his words carefully, but doesn't get a chance to answer.

"You couldn't do it, could you?" the Evil Queen asks.

Evie gasps.

For an unspoken moment, the air is heavy and damp. The two powerful women look at each other impassively, neither blinking or speaking. Even though she proposed the question in the first place, the Evil Queen seems to have already received enough of an answer in the cruel curves of Maleficent's sneer.

"No, I couldn't do it."

The boy beside Evie exhales. "She can't? I thought she was like… all-powerful," he whispers, not specifically to her.

Cruella joins in. "Well, of course, you not. You were already dead. The Land of the Living is a better place for sorcery, I imagine."

"That's kind, but I couldn't have done it even if I was as fully-fleshed and beautiful as you and I are now."

Cruella raises her hand in defeat. "Well, why not?"

Maleficent sighs and places a hand over her eyes. It's difficult to tell whether she's frustrated, disappointed, embarrassed, or just feigning a combination of those feelings for bluster and diversion. But her voice is unwavering and her body is rigid.

"Tell them, Jafar."

"If it was blasting those do-gooder Auradon twerps with lightning," Jafar begins, "Dear, I'm sure you would have worked it all the livelong day. You could've engulfed them in flames or frozen them solid. You could've transformed into a dragon and flown circles around them or eaten them for lunch, but..."

The Evil Queen picks up the idea. "...But that's all Red Magic?"

Evie and the boy look at each other. Magic-talk is fairly taboo on the Island. It's almost embarrassing, like a bright, shining reminder that the "Good Guys" had them not only caged on the wretched Isle like _bad pets_, but also _defanged,_ _declawed, _bad pets.

"What's Red Magic?" the boy asks.

"I think that's my lipstick color?"

The boy snorts and covers his mouth with both hands. He looks guilty for laughing, but takes his time recovering and looking back at the conspiring adults below. Evie's eyes linger on his forearm muscles and smattering of adorable freckles… before leaning back in to the unfolding drama.

"That's right, Evil Queenie. Red Magic. Evil, wretched Red Magic, but… just that."

"And here I thought you were the most powerful witch in the kingdom?" Cruella asks, examining the lining of her fur coat.

Physically restraining herself against lashing out with a staff that isn't in her hands, Maleficent sneers but remains otherwise still. It's clear the intervening time on the Isle has created the slightest modicum of self-restraint in her icy persona.

"I am," she answers plainly. "Skilled and fierce. Powerful beyond compare. Way stronger than that old coot, Fairy Godmother. I'm a literal wiz at Red Magic! Green Magic, too, for that matter. But even I have my limitations... Why, even that big blue goofball Genie, with all his Phenomenal Cosmic Power, is just a Red Magic birthday party magician. It's all in the Three Rules. Isn't it, Jafar?"

That seems enough to bring his attention back from out of the window and into the present. "Some of us would be happy to have that much power again, limitations and all," the Arabian sorcerer grumbles, not liking the truth anymore than Maleficent, but much less inclined to hold back his his reactions.

"Indeed. But no, to bring back us…" Maleficent takes a step back and gestures widely with open arms. Her eyes travel to unseen audiences. "... To bring back all of us scoundrels, all of us 'Villains,' you'd have to be an expert, a Master of…"

Evie realizes she's holding her breath; the boy is wide-eyed. They're motionless, still as stones, dead as doornails, waiting for unknown words to finish lingering through viscous air.

"...Black Magic."

Silence.

The four figures of villainy suddenly seem smaller, slightly grayer.

The watch something (each other?) out of the corner of their eyes and seem unsure of how to rest their jaws.

Dust settles around them.

Finally, Jafar speaks. "You're crazy."

"Am I?" Maleficent retorts.

"That's impossible," he answers.

"Is it?"

"You're just reaching for an explanation."

"What _other _explanation is there?"

"It's just a wild theory—!"

"—Not if I have PROOF!"

"So, you're saying that _he's_ behind all of this?!"

"Who?!" Cruella interrupts. "Dr. Facilier? He does _that_ magic, doesn't he?"

Maleficent snorts. "Facilier is the Fang that thinks himself a Tiger. He's a Black Magician like I'm an eggplant."

"So, if I'm not mistaken, you're saying..." the Evil Queen cuts in, measuring her words carefully. "...we couldn't have been resurrected by heroes. You think we're here because…"

Maleficent smiles. "...because the Horned One found his _darling_."

She steps back from the table, body in full tension, eyes scanning the shocked faces. Nobody argues or pressures a reply; they await silently in a daze, still as graves. Her fingers move slightly, almost protectively, while unspoken thoughts shuffle through her mind.

Abruptly, the sorceress turns toward the window in the ceiling.

Maleficent's eyes zero in on the edges, scrutinizing the opening, watching dust blow in from the outside, searching for…

_**BONG bong BONG bong...**_

Two blocks away, Evie stumbles across the street.

The clock at the center of the Island rings low and loud, signaling the midnight hour and the smashing of her fantastical pumpkin. She scurries madly, already determined to dismiss everything she's heard, already mentally burying the party and erasing the white-and-black-boy from her memory.

I watch the villain princess sprint down the street, heels in hand, deep into the mysteries of the night.


	2. Water Under the Burning Bridge pt 1

_Apologies for the upbeat prologue; nothing's worse than fake cheer. We now return to the conclusion of Descendants 3 and the perfect happily-ever-after that certainly had no consequences, no seismic ramifications, no sirree, not here._

.

* * *

**ONE :: WATER UNDER THE BURNING BRIDGE pt 1**

* * *

It draws out like a deflating balloon: whimpering through a final breath, throbbing with false starts before ceasing entirely. The temperature cools, the music fades, and the dancing settles. The people disperse, finally crossed over the bridge and into the grand ole United States of Auradon.

_Break this down!_

At the edge of the courtyard, Evie—the Evil Queen's beloved daughter—effuses joy. Whatever she's saying is the most interesting thought possible to guess from the look of the dopey-looking ponytailed kid next to her. Dopey Jr. looks up at her and hangs on every word when Evie talks, which is weird because he's definitely taller than her.

On a distant balcony, Mal—daughter of Maleficent—watches over the enormous citizen spread with a faint grin. Not normally one for optimism, she nevertheless wears a look of relief like she just exhaled after years of holding an anxious breath. The air carries static festivity. King Benjamin, the classically handsome son of Queen Mother Belle and King Father Adam, stands proudly by her side, arm around her waist and eyes on the impromptu celebration.

Below the balcony, Cruella de Vil's kid, Carlos, laughs and swings goofily at Jay, son of Jafar. They have a natural sort of chemistry, a bromance of sorts, and it enchants a nearby clump of spectacularly preppy students. For a group that would've turned their noses and called for help at the sight of those same villains only a short time ago, the Auradonians have as big a hunger for _devilish_ charisma as for dancing and singing.

All over, the jubilant crowd is spread thin, winding down. A party completed. But...

...it feels like the Calm Before The Storm.

Not "calm" like a winter evening wrapped in blankets, settled in to read for the night. "Calm" like a hot night with the electricity cut off and all hell on the brink of breaking loose. "Calm" like a sinking ship's figurehead reaching into the sky for a glorious few seconds before plummeting into the inky depths. "Calm" like the sick ache of an uncomfortable silence, wishing somebody would speak or scream or cry just to break the spell. The kind of "calm" a hero wouldn't wish on their worst enemy.

"...got it twisted. Just listen..."

Just a smidge louder than conversational volume, the words slip through the dull roar of conversation floating around inside the walls of Auradon.

"Just listen," a small feminine voice repeats.

The tiny command gathers slight attention with the help of a provoking visual: a grown man glaring at a skinny teenage girl. The ornate blue and gold armor marks him as an Aurandon guard; the growing frown as a displeased one; and the dropping tone of his voice as one on the edge of patience.

"There's nothing to explain, miss."

"It's just a tribute! What's your deal?"

A crowd starts to gather, interested in the growing commotion and drawn in by the stark size differences: she is short, skinny, tiny compared to the guard who easily stands at twice her size and weight. She's dressed in typical atypical Villain Kid attire, rags cobbled into a passable outfit, and holds her hands out with earnest innocence.

"It's not a 'deal,' it's a crime, miss," the guard replies, pointing downward.

The crowd slowly parts into a clear frame around _Exhibit A_: a tag hastily spray painted on the floor, fuschia and neon blue, flowing with round letters reading "BID." The girl innocently holds out her hands, bringing to plain view a pair of fingerless gloves lightly stained with neon paint. It isn't a good look.

From out of a growing crowd of nosy bodies, Jay slips out, all smiles, like he's just showing up late to a casual hangout. "Hey guys, what's the problem?"

"No problem here," the guard answers with a well-timed huff. "This young lady just vandalized the floor during the celebration and thought she could get away with it."

"I didn't _vandalize_ anything!"

"Miss, your—"

"—I have a name! And I—"

"—_Miss, _your_ hands_ are covered in paint. That's all the evidence we need for now. So, please—"

"Maybe I can help here," Jay interjects, shooting a glance at an increasing congestion around them. Nothing is out-of-hand, but he can't help noticing the guard's tensing face... and the way he keeps inching a hand toward the sword at his waist. "How can I explain? It's like an... Isle of the Lost _thing_?"

Whispers sparks in the sizable crowd, faces turn to neighbors, and chatter draws attention from curious onlookers across the courtyard. The rising commotion builds around him like a wave, until suddenly, something snatches Carlos' attention. Mid-sentence with his preppy audience, he trails off and faces the noise.

"Where's Jay?" Almost in a trance, Carolos moves away... only a few steps closer before finding it impossible to cut a path through the multitudes.

"What's going on!?"

High above on the balcony, Mal listens politely to the King Father expounding on the historical development of Auradonian royal matrimony precepts from multicultural kingdoms. Why he chose that exact moment to wax historical was a mystery but it fit his fatherly dorkiness pretty well. The talk is intricate (considering they were singing and dancing less than an hour ago), _extremely_ dry (even for typical Auradon history), and made worse by being no closer to reaching the point after twenty-five minutes. It's almost like Ben's Father is purposely dancing around the conversation topic _he _chose. As the names and dates cascade over her, a wandering glance at the courtyard suddenly tugs at her attention. Mal squints curiously at the social ripples...

"Yeah, it's our thing," the villain girl interjects. "On the Isle, we spray paint pretty much everything. It's what we do. Just decoration and celebration of what we like. Makes everything homey and stuff."

"And the gang tag?"

"_Gang tag_?!"

"The writing."

"Is he serious?" she shouts at Jay. "Are you serious? _BID?_ 'Break It Down?' As in, 'we're gonna break it down,' what we were all _literally _just singing like five minutes ago?! What kinda idiotic—?"

"Okay, can you—" Jay interrupts her in a curt whisper as the mass around him mutters louder. "—please shut your adorable trap and let me handle this."

He faces the guard and turns the charm up to eleven. "See? Just a misunderstanding. Just celebrating too hard. Kids will be kids! Rascals! No harm, no foul!"

The guard balks. "Of course there's a foul! Someone will have to break their back cleaning this mess up now. Do you two think we just live in our filth like on the Isle of the Lost? Auradon isn't a pack of villains!"

Loud grunts and murmurs pass through the crowd of mixed Auradon and Isle natives. It's impossible to tell how much of the sound is agreement and how much is protest, but it is, unmistakably, a louder reaction than the ones before it. At least one voice shouts what others are thinking: _Show some respect!_

"No one's saying that," Jay answers, desperately struggling—probably more than ever since those first few days in Auradon—to stay still and keep a smile while talking to an authority. "_We'll_ clean it. _I'll_ help. No. Harm. No. Foul."

"Everybody, relax!"

Few heads initially turned to the distant voice. Attention gathers on the second, louder attempt.

"Everybody, relax!"

King Ben leans over the balcony ledge with an easy smile and a comforting wave. He looks, for all intents and purposes, like it's business as usual, as if nothing uncomfortable is occurring. Mal stands slightly to the side and behind his tall body, trying to not look as alarmed as she feels.

"People, let's slow down. It's no big deal, none at all; it's just a minor, honest mistake," Ben says to the guard. Even over a long distance, it somehow still feels very direct and sincere. "Sir, let's pardon her and allow the simple mistake to be corrected."

"As for you," Ben continues with a gesture at the girl, "we do things a little differently here in Auradon. But don't worry, you'll learn. I'm sure you'll be fitting in in no time."

"What if I don't want to learn?" she answers.

A heavy calm falls on the courtyard.

In their place at each corner of the outdoor plaza, Carlos, Jay, Mal, and Evie look sick.

By now, the entire attention of the outdoor scene is pinpointed on the unfolding drama. Whatever earlier celebrations existed have faded and all eyes and ears are fixed on the speakers. It's readily apparent how loud the voices are to travel across the courtyard.

"Tagging is my favorite thing in the world!"

"Well… I… Well, you're gonna have… Umm, I'm sorry, but..."

"HELP!"

With even better choreography than the recent dance party, the crowd collectively whip their heads in the opposite direction of the courtyard.

"Somebody arrest her!"

Only a few steps from the entrance to the magnificent plaza, and fewer steps still from Evie, a pretty Auradonia blonde stands with a hand held up like she's asking for permission to go to the school's bathrooms. Her left hand points at the VK girl right next to her—a plain-faced brunette indistinguishable from the rest of the crowd save for a pink denim jacket loudly contrasting with her ratty flannel shirt. The VK holds both palms up, eyebrows raised, looking awkward as can be.

"Hello? Can somebody please do their job and arrest this criminal!"

The voices pick up again, sharing whispers, and pressing in closer. The sudden and loud attention prompts her to continue without reserve.

"What do I mean? I mean this girl is a thief. Help!"

The VK beside her rolls her eyes and scoffs. "What's your problem, Karen-or-whatever-your-name-is?"

"My problem..." the blonde answers, loudly and with more flair than necessary. She directs her words as much to the VK as to the crowd at large, making furtive eye contact with her audience. "My problem is that I'm being victimized, and I need help!"

"Yeah, we heard that. How?"

"Don't play dumb. My _pink jacket_! I set it down for one second and then, _poof_, it's gone and there's a sneaky little VK stretching it out!"

Like that, the calm breaks.

The audience's reaction is more mixed and louder than before. More than one Auradonian seems to suddenly clutch their belongings tighter; children everywhere find themselves tugged in closer by a collar or a sleeve. An anxious guard, identical in everything from uniform to scowl as the previous one, pushes past the pool of gawking bystanders and posts at the center of the clearing.

"Ladies, what seems to be the problem?"

Simultaneously, Evie breaks through the wall of shuffling bodies, regains her composure, and perches between the contending ladies. "What's the matter, girls?"

"My jacket! She stole my jacket and nobody is _DOING_ anything!"

Evie nods sagely and clasps her hands. "I'm sure this is just a big misunderstanding! Let's—"

"Is that true?" the guard asks the nameless VK. "Is that her property?"

"No!"

"Of course, it is!"

"But I've been wearing it all day?"

"So was _I_ before you stole it!"

"Can you prove it's yours, miss?" the guard asks the accused.

She scoffs in reply. "I wore it over the bridge. Sorry I don't have a receipt?"

"Can _you_ prove it's yours?" Evie asks with a stiff smile, an even-tone, and a pointing finger at the distraught blonde.

"It literally matches my whole outfit! Of course it's mine, sweetie. Plus, pink denim doesn't go with anything that _she's_ wearing!"

The loudest crowd response yet. Maybe it's the confidence, maybe it's the condescension, maybe it's the ease of the accusation, but the words startle movement like the crack of a whip. Onlookers lean from one side to the other, loudly agreeing, shouting questions, and scooting away from suspicious characters. The voices spread out like cracks on a frozen lake.

"Bad fashion sense isn't a crime," Evie answers loudly, voice unwavering. The VK behind her raises a protesting hand. Evie waves it down tensely. _Sorry but shut it, girl._

"Yeah, but where would somebody from the Isle even get their hands on something like that?"

"I got it from the dump, okay!" the VK answers, pushing past Evie. "If you can't make your own clothes, you dig through the mountains of secondhand fashion you chumps dump on our island. Not all of us are born with a silver spoon stuck up our butts."

"Like I believe any of that! Give me the jacket or everybody here is going to—"

"Everybody, relax!" Ben shouts again to the teeming courtyard. This time, he's too far away, and his shouts are swallowed up by the intensifying jabber of spectators-turned-malcontents. Even the ears that pick up on his words—few and far between—pay little heed to the beseeching words.

"I said give it back!"

"Are you serious?" Evie balks. "All of this over a tacky jacket?"

"It's not about the jacket! It's about Auradon!"

Loud scattered shouts from the crowd agree with her. Emboldened by verbal support and the distracted guard in front of her, the blonde Auradonian attempts to lunge past his open arms.

Clumsy as the grab is, Evie and the accused VK still reel back, scrambling to stay upright. A distracted bystander catches the tumble on his shoulder and stumbles face-first into the circle. At the same time, the lunge knocks the Auradon guard off-balance and he flails, throwing an armored elbow directly into the bystander's nose.

Blood sprays.

"Get YOUR HANDS off MY MATE!"

In an instant, two villian boys leap from the crowd and onto the guard, who is speechless at his sudden violent turn. The boys claw at his armor and shout indignant nonsense.

And just like that... there is no more "calm before." Only "the storm."

The crowd rattles, voices overlapping and growing like violent winds. Minor bumps turn to quarrels. In every corner, bystander becomes participant and discussion turns to argument.

"What is everybody doing? This is crazy!" Evie shouts.

Nearby, a man in a powder blue blazer retorts with a dismissive grin: "'Crazy' is how Villain Kids just danced over to Auradon just because our 'King' felt like doing some charity!"

"No, wait," a nearby woman shouts, "are you sure it wasn't because of the puppy love he felt for the witch's daughter?"

"...rybody, relax!…" Ben's voice is a distant whine.

A wild sea of blunt objects lurch through the air, improvised clubs searching for a target, any target. Most civilized folks retreat, scrambling around each other toward the castle to avoid aggressive blows from random instruments of destruction. Uma and Harry are among the fortunate few parrying blows (using smuggled weapons, no less), but even they eke their way toward the ocean's edge in desperation.

Carlos emerges from the tumultuous bodies and helplessly searches the crowd for the obvious: the boiling point is long past, the crowd is at a vicious boil. And the calm has turned to full-scale storm. Wide-eyed, he grabs his nearest friend, Evie, by her delicate shoulders and frantically yanks her down a nearby corridor.

Up on the balcony, a distressed Mal snaps out of a daze.

One, two, three blinks, then an indescribable instinct makes her reach out over the crowd. At the end of her outstretched arm, gripped tightly in her dainty hand, Mal finds the Fairy Godmother's magic wand. _How did that appear in my—?_ Before the thought can complete, she instinctively coils back with the incantation...

"_Extinguish the flames—_"

A plump hand snatches the wand from her hand, hushing the words bubbling up from deep inside.

"Mal, where the bibbity dadgum bobbity did you get…?" Fairy Godmother leans back with wide eyes, as surprised as Mal but much more distraught. "How could you…?"

Mal flaps her mouth for a few instants, unable to explain. An instinct flares up again, and then she feels her heart drop: her skin is itchy. Immediately, Mal knows what's happening, but it's too far along to stop. She opens her mouth to say something, anything, to the Fairy Godmother, but her tongue is already thick with change.

The crowd below spots it immediately.

"DRAGON!"

"She's turning into a dragon!"

"She's gonna drive away the Villains!"

"She _IS _a Villain!"

"SHE'S GONNA EAT US!"

The storm erupts into full-blown chaos.

Everybody scatters like rain.

I side-step into a corridor and make a futile escape.


End file.
